


Without a Doubt

by tanyart



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 22:20:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ziio meets a stranger. (Spoilers for AC3)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without a Doubt

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of self-indulgent closure fic.

Ziio admits that she can be reckless at times, but she is no fool to be taken advantage of by some stalker hiding behind a fallen, frost-covered tree. She wanders away from the small campfire, blowing warm air into her hands and looks up as if daydreaming. Her meandering path takes her to the fallen tree, and at the last second she ducks underneath and throws all her weight down, sending the intruder sprawling against the packed snow.  
  
She lowers her knife against the man’s throat. “ _This is sacred ground; you should not be here_.”  
  
Ziio speaks in Mohawk first, because the world has a habit of underestimating her when she does, and though the stranger wears an Englishman’s coat, there are touches of Mohawk adornments – armbands in patterns and feathers to tell her to not take him lightly. His face as well shows his heritage, and she speaks on instinct.  
  
The man gives no answer, only stares and stares, wide-eyed and frozen. Wisps of warm air puff from his mouth in quick and shallow breaths. Ziio’s firm palm on his chest confirms a heart that is beating all too fast for a seasoned fighter, if his scars and weapons are anything to go by. She peers a little closer, curious to why the man appears so overly terrified, and finds traces of European features in the man’s expression beneath the shadow of his cowl. Ah, so that would explain it.  
  
“Why are you here?” she finally asks in English. She cautiously removes the knife from his neck, but leaves it guarded in front of her.  
  
The sound of English seems to jolt him out of his stupor. Sitting up, the man attempts to scoot back and away, boots finding no purchase over the snow. Ziio allows him space to move. Something about his nervousness tells her that he is no threat. To her, at least.  
  
“You were not supposed to-” he begins, still staring. He scrambles to his feet and puts his hands up as if he could ward her away. His words are rushed and almost babbling. “I was not supposed to be seen. The spirit warned me not to be seen. I have to-“ He abruptly stops talking and turns around, ready to bolt.  
  
“Wait!” Ziio says, and if words had actual power, she had never seen it work so well. The man halts completely, going rigid before he warily turns to face her.  
  
Keeping her eyes on his, she tucks her knife away and spreads out her hands in a gesture of peace.  
  
“The spirit may not have intended for you to caught, but what is done is done,” she tells him, blunt and to the point. “You cannot correct it now.”  
  
It is hard to tell from his cowl, but he seems to be her age, perhaps older, which doesn’t excuse his skittish behavior – and Ziio would not describe the man as meek, but there is something strangely obedient about him. He looks down, nods more to himself than to Ziio, and steps towards her small camp.  
  
“I am Kaniehtí:io,” she says, once they have settled next to the campfire.  
  
They sit across from each other, close enough to have a conversation without raising their voices, but still distant to show their caution. The man tenses, draws his knees up and circles his arms around them.  
  
“Hello,” he replies, very faint, and lapses into more silence.  
  
“May I call you anything in return?” Ziio asks, growing a little impatient.  
  
He pauses, glances away to think, and says, “Connor.” He sounds miserable.  
  
“If you have so many names at your disposal, I would think that you would have chosen one you liked, at least,” Ziio says wryly. She keeps her voice light enough to show that she does not mind the obvious alias.  
  
“The name was given to me. I like it,” Connor says, sitting up, almost defensive. “I do prefer another, but I think – it… it would not be right for me to say, and for you to use, yet.” He flushes at his own cryptic words, but his lips form a stubborn, pursed line. He refuses to go on so Ziio does not press.  
  
“Very well, I will not pry any further on that,” she says skeptically. She leans to the side, dragging a dry branch to feed the fire. Connor reaches over to help, and she nods her thanks. “I am, however, wondering why you are _here_. This area is under my protection.”  
  
To her surprise, Connor nods, understanding. He stares into the fire. “I had some questions,” he says, hands tightening over his elbows. “I came here looking for answers.”  
  
“And have you found them?” she asks, more than a little fascinated despite herself. She knows Connor is hiding many things from her, and that is not surprising. What _is_ surprising is that she feels that he does not want to hide at all. He struggles not to speak too much, and cuts himself off when he strings more than a couple of sentences together. They have only just met, but Ziio can tell that he is earnest, and does not take to keeping secrets well.  
  
“I am not sure,” Connor says, giving her a curious look, an observing one.  
  
Ziio is used to being stared at, in European towns and from speaking in front of her village, but she grows uncomfortable under his scrutiny. His countenance is melancholy, as if he is hurt and sad and unable to do anything about it, and has been unable to do anything about it for a long time. He smiles, though, small and tentative. It is intimate, private; for some reason, Ziio knows this to be a treasure.  
  
“Perhaps our meeting is meant to help you,” she says thoughtfully. “Maybe I can help, though I will not pretend to be an infallible source of advice.”  
  
For the first time, Connor’s serious air fades. He laughs, uncurls a little from his huddled position. “You are wise.”  
  
Ziio snorts. She is to be clan mother someday, but humbleness is a virtue. “You have not heard my advice yet. Now, what is making you so unhappy?”  
  
Connor starts. He twists his fingers together, considering, and absently plays with the frayed ends of his gloves. He thinks for a moment longer, and finally decides, “I am not unhappy. But I am troubled.”  
  
With him, Ziio can sense the distinction he makes between the two. She does not reach out, but she lays out her hand, just in case. Connor glances at it, his expression crumples at the edges, but he takes it without the hesitation Ziio thought he would have. Her hand around his seems to make him less anxious.  
  
“I have made promises and commitments,” he continues, moving closer so that their hands can rest comfortably between them. “I have done many things, and met with failures and successes. But what I have done so far – I do not think it is enough.” He does not elaborate, which does not help Ziio in the least, but his vagueness sounds deliberate. “I know what I must do, and I have a path to follow, but…”  
  
“You tire of it?” Ziio asks, because it hits home, so very close to her heart. “Do you want to change your path?”  
  
Connor looks up sharply. The intensity of his gaze renders her silent.  
  
“No. Never,” he says fiercely, his grip tightening to make good of his words. “I will not give up, I will not.” He glances back down at their hands and relaxes. He exhales slowly, gathering his thoughts. “I have… accomplished many goals. I have pride in the things I have done, and the lessons that I have learned. I have done _so much_ , but I know, deep down, it will not be enough.  It will _never_ be enough, and it burns.  It hurts because...”  
  
He struggles for a moment. With what, Ziio does not know. He has been eloquent thus far. She stays quiet, still struck with the way his eyes had blazed as he spoke, determined and unwavering. It reminds her of someone, and suddenly she knows what troubles him so.  
  
“… you know you will leave things unfinished,” she says quietly for Connor. She realizes that all his promises are not tangible and immeasurable, and meant to serve something larger than himself. It is inspiring, as it is saddening. “You are disappointed, despite everything.”  
  
Connor lowers his head, stares into his lap. He can no longer look her in the eyes, and he speaks so softly that she has to lean forward to hear.  
  
“ _I promised to make them proud_.”  
  
He does not seem to notice how he slips to their language. She was not meant to hear this, she knows, because she can see how much pride he has, how guarded, and for his sake she asks three questions.  
  
“Were you brave?”  
  
Connor lifts his head and stares. He wets his lips, his reply is slow, unsure; “Yes.”  
  
“Were you strong?”  
  
“I tried to be.”  
  
Very carefully, Ziio lifts their hands, giving it a gentle squeeze. She leans towards him and raises her other hand to touch his cheek, because this, she feels, is the most important question of them all.  
  
“Were you alone?”  
  
Connor blinks, and then he smiles. A breathless laugh escapes him; the answer he gives is full of conviction. “No. Never. Even when I thought I was.”  
  
Ziio returns his smile.  
  
“Then I am sure _they_ are proud of you,” she says and, almost impulsively, she adds, “I know I would be.”  
  
The expression on Connor’s face is a strange one. She wonders if she overstepped her bounds, but he holds onto her hand tighter.  
  
“Thank you,” he says, solemn, and she knows that somehow she has said the right thing.  
  
They are allowed a few more seconds of stillness in front of the fire before the silence breaks, the sound of a twig snapping loud. Connor lets go of her hand.  
  
“I should leave,” he says, turning to the sound. He stares into the distance, as if he could _see_ , and stands.  
  
He is too deft and quick for Ziio to stop him, and she does not particularly want to either. She remains seated next to the fire, watching Connor slide down an icy slope and disappear, blending into the snow and trees in the distance. She turns away and smiles to herself.  
  
“You are loud, Haytham,” she quips over her shoulder.  
  
“I had only just arrived,” Haytham says crossly, arms full of broken branches for the fire. He sets them down and brushes snow from his bright red coat. “Who was that?”  
  
“I have no idea,” she says. “He was lost and wandered into our camp. I believe he knows his way now.”  
  
Haytham glances in the direction Connor took off, eyes following the trail of bootprints.  
  
“Someone I should trouble myself with?” he asks lightly, though he has a sharp look in his eyes. Distrustful or protective, she can only hope that it’s the latter.  
  
“I do not think so,” Ziio replies, shrugging. “Shall I take you to the site now?”  
  
“What? And I collected all that wood for nothing?” Haytham sighs theatrically.  
  
Ziio laughs, standing and kicking snow over the fire, and maybe even a little bit on Haytham. He hops out of the way, but almost loses his balance and she grabs onto his arm to steady him.  
  
“We will be coming back,” she promises, and leads him away.


End file.
